Ghosts
by SkyKissed
Summary: Ghosts, he thinks, moving back towards their makeshift camp. Neverland is full of them. More than Lost Boys, or Indians or fairy dust, its true power is in its ghosts. And between the pair of them they could fill a graveyard. Hook/Regina


**A/N:** I like to imagine one of these days I'll actually write something for these two where...something happens. Until then. Have this. XD Inspired by the teaser shot of Regina all huddled by her onesies.

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**GHOSTS**

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Nights in Neverland are never quite right, never something he's completely adjusted to. They operate much the same as the rest of this fae world, caught in a constant state of immobility. The temperature is perpetually warm, the moon is eternally full. There is always that eerie pale globe in the sky, painting the forest with waxy light, too close, almost as if someone has reached up and pulled the orb nearer. It is surreal, haunting. There are motes of dust (some natural, some fae in nature) glittering in the columns of light.

No one could mistake such a thing as natural. No one could trust the misleading calm, the silence.

Still, the Charmings sleep, Emma sleeps, all finding rest where they can. It is different for them; he sees as much in their eyes. They are aware of the danger but they do not _understand_ it. Cannot understand it as he does. Fundamentally, they are good. They cannot fully comprehend the threat, the evil, set in front of them.

As he is chased from sleep yet again, Hook doesn't wonder if there are some advantages to such blindness.

He wanders the beach for a time, watching the now placid sea. There are no waves. The ocean is too calm, a glassy surface that more closely resembles a lake. The wind ruffles his hair but does not disturb the water. Even if Regina could fix the Jolly Roger there would be no way out. Pan is forbidding it. Pan will keep them here. His fingers find the hilt of his sword almost instinctively at the thought.

Pan, Pan, Pan, the name alone enough to summon him in this world, his playground. The boy, and he hesitates to use such a word to describe the mercurial creature, stirring a fear long dead within him.

Ghosts, he thinks, moving back towards their makeshift camp. Neverland is full of them. More than Lost Boys, or Indians or fairy dust. Its true power is in its ghosts, the shades walking the eternally illuminated jungle. For the first time in too long, Hook feels a tinge of dread.

Somehow he is not surprised that she too remains awake. Regina sits a ways away from the rest of the camp, her back fetched against an impressive tree. She looks small in that moment, not intending for any to see her, all those masks stripped aside now that she has no audience to pretend for. The change is not one he can say he prefers. There's too much memory there. Too much pain.

The real danger of this place.

He sees what she really is, he supposes. A woman who has lost her son long before this point and never quite managed to get him back. A woman desperately grasping for what she views is her last chance. There is a sad sort of finality to the thought, a resignation he would never have associated with her single minded determination.

Her eyes, auburn and warm like the fire she so favors, are nearly black in the stillness of the night. The stray shafts of moonlight that break through the canopy do not reach her. Perhaps intentional on her part but he prefers to think it some poetic irony. No light for Regina, no matter how many times she tries reaching for it. The Queen stares up towards the stars, her gaze wide and unfocused but painfully aware. Her body is tense as if in anticipation. Perhaps for some horror to come crawling out of the jungle, perhaps of Pan suddenly arriving on the scene. Perhaps that she will dream of Henry if she so much as blinks.

She watches the stars then, not bothering to look as he settles beside her, laughing at their placement. The rock she has chosen is small and while he is not fetched up beside her they are close. He can feel her warmth (despite her almost unnatural pallor she has always run inhumanly warm) against his side, the lick of her magic over his skin. There is a hint of light just beyond her perch, cutting it in half diagonally. Somehow, it doesn't settle over him. Somehow they both manage to remain in darkness.

Poetic irony, he thinks; the voice in his head sounds amused but it is also bitter.

"Careful wandering so far, love," he says, voice low so as not to wake the others. He settles on his back without waiting for her permission (knowing she would not grant it) and follows the line of her gaze. There is a break in the canopy leading to the stars. Millions of them, alien. Not like his stars; not like her stars. These are cold and foreign, dancing just on the edge of sight, scattered randomly as if by a child's whimsy. In Neverland they might have been. He folds his arms behind his head, staring up at the pinpricks of light, "That is an infinite sea. Not even I could find you."

"Then we're in luck," she turns just enough to regard him in profile, " I'd never ask you to look."

Hook chuckles, dipping his head in concession to the jibe. The fear, the pain, has all but faded, replaced firmly with a mask of sneering indifference. It's an effective sort of cover, suited for her, if not for the heavy bags or the lines of worry hidden near the corners of her eyes. He tips his head towards her, resting his chin on his chest, "You wound me, my dear. I come with nothing more than friendly words."

Her hum says it all. She doesn't believe him. She's never really believed him, never really trusted him. If he's honest, he can admire her for that. He is a creature crafted almost solely of deception and warped perception, a silver tongue and smoke and mirrors. He has long since honed this persona to a knife point. The Queen is simply cut from the same fabric, wears the same losses and lies branded across her skin, and thus is...immune to him, in a relative sense.

"Regardless of your cutting statements, there are better uses of your time. Sleep, I should hope, would be high on your list of priorities."

"And maybe you should listen to your own advice."

Tit for tat. Regina watches the stars and scowls, the expression painted masterfully across features he'd fancy as beautiful (if not for the very same scowl). She pulls her coat more tightly about herself though the night is far from cool. Neverland never is. The world is caught in a perpetual summer. The kind only little boys truly enjoy, perfect for romping through the woods and playing games. She glares down at him briefly before wincing, easing herself from her sitting position down beside him. With an offended, ginger, sort of dignity, she links her hands over her stomach, fetched against him, shoulder to hip.

She sighs, the sound exhausted, and looks at him again, more searchingly this time, "You're always there when I turn around, Captain. Sometimes I wonder why."

"Wonder no longer, my dear. The view from behind you is...quite excellent," his eyes rove over her figure with exaggerated intent (he feels little urge for her now, the night too heavy, too steeped in memory), "Though this angle certainly has merits."

"How refreshing to see time hasn't worn away that silver tongue."

"Afraid not. Only managed to smooth away the edges."

She smiles a little, a true smile, not a scowl, and he's struck by the bitterness of the expression. It is largely hollow, almost as if it's entirely foreign to her character or her countenance. Remembered but not felt. Something in the jungle behind them howls into the night. The Charmings curl more tightly into each other, Emma shifts absently in her sleep. Hook does nothing. Regina does the same.

Perhaps they _are _villains. Perhaps, as villains, they know that whatever petty beast is howling in the night will not, cannot, harm them. It is vicious but it is not evil. It will not trouble them.

"I hate this place."

He has to strain to hear her. Regina's lips are pursed to the thinnest line, arms held to her more tightly, as if she's warding off something more than the cold. Memories, maybe. This place is rife with them. There's no future and so they often wander their pasts. Younger days.

Happier days, maybe.

"You get used to it, love," a wind, overly warm, whips over them and through the trees, humming with too much intent. Like fingers through their hair, "Too many ghosts whispering to you all at once. You learn to tune them out."

"Superstitious, Hook?"

It is his turn to smile, soft and perhaps a little indulgent, "Realistic. You can run from many things, Majesty, but your past is not one of them. Not here."

"No, not here," she repeats, lowly, to herself more than anything else. Those dark eyes switch to the sky again, trying to pick out familiar patterns in the stars and failing. She shifts instinctively nearer to him, the tension never leaving her figure, too lost in thought to even notice him observing her. Not her looks, not her beauty; those would be obvious to most anyone. Here, those things do not interest him.

There are names written across her skin, he thinks, some the same as engraved on his own and some simply mirrors. Revenge is there, ancient and deep and festering, the Charmings names all seamlessly intertwined with it. Rumpelstiltskin, though she wears him as a traitor and he files him under revenge. There is another, a final, name carved dangerously near her heart. Not over it, that would be too weak but in that general vicinity. These lines are thin and pale, almost impossible to see. Perhaps he only notices because he has the same marks. _Daniel,_ though he doesn't know the name. He sees the signs though, knows the same loss. He wears it as Milah and she'll wear it as Daniel. The same pain, the same love and the same inevitable conclusion. Those incarnations of themselves had both stolen their love (he steals her from another man; Regina chooses to steal away the future her mother has painted, steals moments in the stable when she thinks no one is looking). They steal their happiness and it is likewise stolen from them.

Poetic irony, and this time the thought is most certainly bitter.

He smirks at her, the expression a list wistful, as near to pained as he will ever permit himself to feel, "The luxury of the Charmings. Our resident saints have so few regrets. Present company excluded."

Regina arches a brow, unable to keep the amusement out of her tone, "We all have skeletons, Captain."

"And some more than most, love. I dare say between the pair of us we could fill a graveyard."

"Macabre."

"Realistic," he repeats, watching the stars. Those strange alien stars, too bright, and a moon too close. The jungle behind them seems to suddenly hum with life, almost responding to the ominous turn of their thoughts. Somehow he would not doubt if Pan were listening in on their thoughts.

"I don't care," there is too much determination in her voice and he's struck again by the earlier image. A mother who has lost her son once too often, clinging to the idea that something might, _might_, go correctly for once. It cannot, not here. Not when the past is so strong and not with their pasts as they are. Still, her jaw sets in a firm line, daring him to challenge her, "Pan has my son. If I have to gut the little bastard a thousand times…"

"Don't put it past him, love. Neverland is ageless. Pan is ageless."

"Then it's a risk I'll take. I'm not afraid of this place."

She speaks with such strength but her eyes say something entirely different. They are afraid, the ugly sentiment coloring the outside of her awareness. There are too many sins behind her for this to turn out for the better. Too much guilt and too many corpses. Too many names etched on her skin.

She's fighting not to add another. Fighting not to have '_Henry_' emblazoned across her heart (not _near _her heart but over it, sappy, weak and not caring) in dripping, bloody letters along with all her other regrets.

That he can understand. That he can respect. Hook nods to no one in particular, recognizing that she has slipped off into her own thoughts once more. The air around them stinks with memory and regret. Regina watches the stars and he joins her. The Queen never asks him to leave. There is an idle, hollow, comfort in numbers.

Behind them, the jungle stirs, its ghosts howling.


End file.
